Apparently Chewie agreed.
“It’s about damned time,” he muttered as she changed out of her finery and detailed her plan to him. “There is no shame in admitting you need help.” He was stretched out on the floor next to her bed, taking up most of the rest of the space in the small room. “Are you going to call them now?”
Beka nodded, tossing on a simple sundress and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Right this very minute, if you could stop bitching long enough for me to concentrate.”
“I am a male,” Chewie growled. “I don’t bitch.” But he sat up alertly, adding only, “I really like that Alexei. It will be good to see him again.”
Beka snorted. “Of course you do. You’re both insanely large, furry, and like to eat anything not nailed down. You’re practically twins.”
Taking off the dragon earring with the black tourmaline in it, she held it in cupped hands and closed her eyes, summoning as clear a picture of Alexei Knight as she could, building a bridge to his essence with her memories and her desperation. A huge bear of a man, at least six foot eight, and massively built, Alexei was the berserker of the three, who lived to fight and drink and eat, and did all of them with joyous abandon. She could see him now as if he stood before her—his coarse brown hair wild as brambles, his beard braided, his eyes lit from within as if by fire. He usually wore black leathers that jangled with chains, and rode a black Harley that roared almost as loudly as he did.
I need you, Alexei. Come to me.
Replacing the tourmaline earring, she took out the one with the pearl and thought about her favorite of all the Riders. Mikhail Day, the White Rider, had always been kind to her when she’d been a child, and she’d had an avid crush on him as a teen. Little wonder, when he looked like a Tolkien elf; his long blond hair worn loose to drift over his broad shoulders, dressed in pristine white jeans and a linen shirt, so handsome that otherwise sensible women tended to lose their heads when he walked into a room. His white Yamaha purred like a panther, and he had a weakness for sweets and damsels in distress. Surely Mikhail could help her, if anyone could.
Mikhail, I need you. Please come right away.
Lastly, she held the necklace with its blood-red ruby. The Red Rider had always intimidated her a little, although she was glad to have him on her side. Gregori Sun was as serene as Alexei was turbulent; shorter than the others, with long black hair pulled back in a tail and the flat cheekbones, dark, slanted eyes, and Fu Manchu mustache of a Mongol warrior, Gregori moved with the grace of an assassin and wore a red skintight leather jumpsuit that matched his silent red Ducati. Beka had never quite figured him out—she thought he was probably the deadliest of the three, which was really saying something, and yet he always seemed so calm and never said a harsh word. He was a puzzle she wasn’t sure she really wanted to solve.
Gregori, I need you. Come to me.
She hung the necklace back around her neck and opened her eyes with a sigh. Hopefully it wouldn’t take the Riders long to get here. The last she knew, they’d finished helping her sister Barbara with something across the country in New York State. But their magical motorcycles, transformed from the enchanted steeds they’d once ridden, could get them from one place to the next much faster than should have been possible. With any luck, they would be here in the next day or two.
Which was good. Because she needed all the help she could get.
*
MARCUS LOOKED AT the dripping nets they’d just hauled back aboard and ran through every curse word he’d learned in the military. Then he made up a few more on the spot. Chico and Kenny gaped with disbelief, their mouths hanging open like the fish they’d expected to be unloading, and his father was so pale that Marcus was afraid he was going to pass out on the deck.
He moved unobtrusively to stand next to the old man, who was so upset, he didn’t even bother to say something sarcastic about not needing to be babied like a sick child.
“It’s shredded,” Marcus Senior said in a lifeless voice. “There isn’t even enough of it left to mend.”
“What could do that?” Kenny asked, glancing fearfully over the side of the Wily Serpent. “Some kind of giant squid?”
Chico rolled his eyes and spat. “You watch too many late night movies, mi hermano. There are no monsters under the sea waiting to eat you.”
“Well, something sure as hell tore the crap out of that net,” Kenny retorted. “Unless you think maybe the tuna have learned to fight back.”
Marcus ignored their familiar squabbling and squatted down to take a closer look. His father knelt down next to him, fingering the tangled and tattered remains of what had been perfectly woven fibers not three hours before.